"No."
"Install one," Julian said grimly.
Tom and Arch returned with Jake, whose wound had been cleaned and smeared with antiseptic. Tom repeated the vet's warning that we were to watch the hound over the next few days for signs of fever or swelling, indications that an infection might be setting in.
Arch watched Julian's skillful moves as he organized a meal on the scratched Formica counter. "I am so happy you're here," he said awkwardly. At fourteen, Arch did not initiate physical affection.
Julian set aside the grated Parmesan and grabbed Arch in a bear hug. "Hey, man, great to see you, too. Still doing magic? What's your latest project?"
"Well... Todd and I are working on some high-tech stuff I have a whole display of it in my - our - room," Arch replied shyly. "First I have to show you the cat's new spot. Want to see both?"
"You bet."
I followed them upstairs. Tom, mumbling vaguely about woodwork, retired to the basement. While I unfurled clean sheets, Arch proudly showed Julian how Scout the cat had made a hidden home under Julian's old bed. Scout had fled inside during the Litchfield encounter. Now he eased from his spot to rub against Julian's stubbly cheek. Julian howled with laughter. Arch's wide grin made me smile.
Back in the kitchen, I pored over my computer manual and eventually chose and entered a password. Rock music reverberated from the boys' room overhead. At four o'clock, Julian came down to help with the evening meal. I shaped, knotted, and covered rolls from a recipe Andre had laboriously copied out and given me. Julian put the potatoes in to bake, finished trimming the other vegetables, and set the table. While the rolls rose, I seared the chops and swirled in Dijon mustard with melted currant jelly for a sauce. Julian scooped out the baked potatoes, whipped the steaming mass with cream, Parmesan, salt, and white pepper, refilled the skins, and placed the delicious-looking concoctions back into the oven to puff to a golden brown. While he was cleaning up, I told him about the previous day's modeling shoot, working with Andre, finding Gerald Eliot's body, and the arrest of Arch's and my old friend, Cameron Burr. Cameron was now sitting in jail while his wife labored to breathe. Julian frowned. Perhaps thinking of Cameron, he dubbed his dish Jailbreak Potatoes.
Jailbreak Potatoes
4 'large baking potatoes
2 tablespoons (¬ stick) unsalted butter
« cup whipping cream
« teaspoon salt
¬ teaspoon or more white pepper
« cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Preheat the oven to 400øF.
Scrub and prick each potato 3 or 4 times with a fork. Bake the potatoes for 1 hour, or until flaky. Remove from the oven and cool slightly.
In the large bowl of an electric mixer, place the butter, cream, salt, pepper, and cheese. Using a sharp knife, cut at a 45-degree angle to remove an oval of skin and potato the flat top side of each potato. Using a spoon, scoop most of the, potato out of the interior into the bowl with the other ingredients. Leave a thin layer of potato inside the skin. Scrape the potato from the back of the removed ovals of potato skin into the bowl.
Using the whip attachment, whip the potato mixture until smooth. Taste and correct the seasoning.
Dividing the whipped potato mixture evenly, spoon it back into the skins. Place the stuffed potatoes on a buttered, rimmed baking sheet and bake an additional 15 minutes, or until the filling is thoroughly heated.
Makes 4 servings
Just after six o'clock, the three meat-eaters dug into the tender chops, while all of us dove into the rich, tangy potatoes and magnificent array of fresh asparagus, leek, tomatoes, and corn braised in white wine and broth. We smeared butter on the feather-light, golden-brown rolls, ate, and talked about Arch's upcoming school year and how long it would be before Tom could be cleared.
We avoided mention of Cameron Burr. We also skirted the subject of Julian dropping out of college. As his self-appointed aunt-cum-godmother, this move of his did bother me. No matter how gifted a person was at cooking or anything else, a well-rounded education would help him navigate through life. But this was not' the time for parental advice. Julian was a very intelligent, very good kid. I trusted him. If he didn't make a move to go back to school within six months, we'd have a heart-to-heart. For the moment, even under the clouds of Cameron's arrest and Tom's suspension, we could concentrate on enjoying a long-delayed family reunion.
When the dishes were done, Julian ordered Tom, Arch, and me to sit on the back deck while he put together a dessert tray. The sun slipped slowly behind enormous, salmon-colored clouds that hovered over the mountains' silhouette. With a flourish, Julian produced a tray of his trademark fudge, a dark, impossibly luscious concoction dotted with sun-dried cherries. I closed my eyes, bit into the velvety chocolate, and allowed happiness to infuse my senses. The smooth, silky combination of bittersweet and milk chocolate combined with tart, chewy cherries and crunchy, toasted hazelnuts made my spine tingle. My kitchen was a mess, my bookings were down, a friend of ours had been arrested, my husband was suspended. But there was tomorrow, I reminded myself. If Scarlett O'Hara could look to better times, why couldn't I? Plus, Scarlett hadn't had her spirits bolstered by Julian Teller's company - not to mention his fudge.
On Wednesday and Thursday we waited for Tom's fellow officers to update us on the Eliot case. No information - not even the results of the autopsy - was forthcoming. Since Eliot's murder was a capital case, Cameron Burr was formally denied bail. One call from the police captain's secretary yielded the information that Tom's suspension was being written up for formal review. The Mountain Journal speculated endlessly about the homicide. The headline Local Cop Suspended Pending Probe made me flinch.
For my part, I spent the two days drinking coffee, agonizing with Julian over the Soir‚e, testing menus, and making phone calls. At the Furman County Jail, Cameron either didn't get my messages or ignored them. Lutheran Hospital still insisted Barbara couldn't talk. I also tried - in vain - to hatch more jobs.
When Julian was off at the grocery store on one of our experimentation days - I felt slightly guilty to have such a willing helper - I decided to follow his suggestion and try an autumn-type dish for the Soir‚e. While I was peeling a Granny Smith apple, Kathleen Druckman - Todd's mother - called to ask about the prospect of Arch and Todd joining a cotillion. While I was chopping the apple, Arch came into the kitchen; I ran the idea by him and he said to forget it. Defeated, I wondered what the mother of a fourteen-year-old was supposed to do. Then again, I remembered as I melted butter and mixed the chopped apples with moist, crumbly brown sugar, I'd sworn off involvement in Arch's social life.
I sifted flour with cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice - and recalled the beginning of the previous February, when, for the second year in a row, Arch had been approached by a female classmate and asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend. Since it was not the same girl as the preceding year, I'd kept my mouth shut as Arch had again ecstatically said, Sure! He'd love to be her boyfriend! Last year, he'd begged Julian to make a heart-shaped chocolate cake with the girl's name and his written in frosting, which he'd given to the girl. This year, he'd enthusiastically spent his money earned from chores on a Valentine's Day basket for the new love. On February fourteenth, he'd floated off to school, bearing his load of chocolates and stuffed animals, and made his offering. By February twentieth - both years - he'd been told that he was boring and the relationship was over.
I stirred the dry ingredients and an egg into the mixture, then slid the whole thing in the oven. When the fragrant scent of autumn spices rolled through the kitchen thirty minutes later, I took the pan out and set it aside to cool. Then I reluctantly called Kathleen Druckman back and said, no cotillion. Thanks anyway. I didn't know whether Arch was unusual in receiving the cruelty of prepubescent females, or whether all the boys suffered from the same gullibility. Whatever had been the reason for the Valentine's Day fiascoes, Arch needed to build up his armor in the gender wars.
Each day, Tom disappeared to the hardware store. He always returned home with bulging paper bags and a secretive, satisfied look. I didn't know what he was up to as he banged away in the basement, and I didn't dare ask. As I felt the reverberations through the kitchen floor, I decided the hammering must be Tom's therapy, like the pro football player I'd seen on TV. With great glee, the attlete had said the NFL was the only place you could beat the daylights out of somebody and not go to jail. And he didn't use the word daylights.
Arch followed Julian around like a shadow. As for Julian, he still heaped four teaspoons of sugar into his morning espresso and bounced culinary ideas around until he came up with something he wanted to try. And he cooked. We had ground shrimp poached with herbs and encased in brioche, the savory cheesecake I'd made for Andr‚, crisp-fried crab cakes paired with tangy cole-slaw, and grilled fish tacos on homemade tortillas with papaya salsa. Meals were heaven, and a welcome break from the worry over unreturned calls to Cameron Burr, the lack of information about Barbara, and our general lack of employment.
Each evening, Tom and Julian and Arch and I would sit out on our deck and indulge in desserts that ranged from peach pie to bread pudding. We would eat, that is, until Julian's worry about whether he was being helpful enough burst forth in a slew of questions: Had we developed enough recipes for the Soir‚e tasting party? Would he be allowed to help me at future catered events? I invariably replied in the affirmative. I'd always told my Sunday School class to love unconditionally. The only problem arose when you were dealing with somebody who felt he had to earn your love. No matter how many times we showed Julian that we loved and accepted him, he was always looking around wildly and pleading, Let me do more.
At seven-thirty Friday morning, while Tom and Arch were still asleep, Julian and I were just beginning to look over our offerings for Andre's coffee break when the call came.
"This is Rufus Driggle," the husky voice identified himself. "I'm over here at the Homestead." He paused. Then he said, "I think you better come over and help old Mr. Andr‚."
My skin rippled with gooseflesh. "What's wrong?" Rufus exhaled. The receiver clunked and I could just make out some angry whispers.
"Hello?" I demanded. "This is Ian Hood. Andr‚ says he's fine. He gave us your number. But the old guy grabbed his chest when he was putting out the coffee cups." Ian sighed with impatience. "I think he's got a bit of pain down his left arm, he's sweating, and every time I come out to the kitchen, he's sitting down like he's exhausted."
"Did you call nine-one-one?" I demanded.
"They're on their way."
"So are we."
I gripped the dashboard as Julian rocked his Range Rover, inherited from former employers, to the Homestead. Stay calm, I ordered myself. Andr‚ might need you. We could get there before the ambulance. I had taken a course in cardiopulmonary resuscitation after Marla had her heart attack. When I'd unexpectedly come on the dead body of my ex-husband's girlfriend earlier in the summer, though, the emergency operator had asked if I knew CPR, and I'd mumbled a negative. Crises will do that: make you forget what you know.
We drew up to the Homestead service entrance. A two-story log octagon with timbered additions and a peaked roof, the former ranch owner's residence-turned-museum always reminded me of one of Arch's Lincoln Log constructions. As I vaulted out of the Rover, two paramedics trudged out the back door. I confronted one of them: a tall, chunky bald man with a ruddy complexion and a large nose.
"How is he? What happened?"
"He's fine," the man reassured me. "Mr. Hibbard had a little indigestion. He checks out completely."
"What do you mean he checks out?" I echoed, dumb-founded. "Did he take some of his nitroglycerin? How come you're not taking him down to the hospital?"
"He didn't take the nitro because his doctor's told him he's sensitive to it. Mr. Hibbard was very angry with us, and insisted he's been told not to take a pill unless he's sure he's having an attack, which he wasn't. And we're not transporting him anywhere because he's not sick and not in danger," the paramedic said firmly. "Somebody pushed the panic button, that's all."
"Are you sure he's all right?"
"He's fine. If he has more symptoms, he knows to put a tablet under his tongue. The nitroglycerin opens up the - " "I know what nitroglycerin does." Reminders of my enforced passage through Med Wives 101 never helped my mood.
"He seems to think he's in excellent shape," the paramedic added with a chuckle. "Are you okay?"
I assured him that I was, thanked him for checking Andr‚ out, and trotted to the glass-paneled back door. Julian followed close behind.
Fussing loudly, Andr‚ sat perched on a wooden stool by the Homestead kitchen's massive oak table. He was buttoning up his crisp white chef's jacket. Ian Hood and Rufus Driggle hovered nearby.
" - and I don't understand why the two of you can't go and take care of Saint Nicholas and the children," Andr‚ fumed as he elbowed Rufus away from him. "Just wait for us to serve you! I am fine! Stop being such busybodies!"
